Monday the buds on the wisteria
Race the buds on the peonies
To bloom
And, look!, the first pea tendrils
Are almost grabbing the lowest wire

Tuesday three tall irises
Throw their newly purple beauty to the sky
Above thick rows of still sleepy daylilies
No flowers awakened yet by summer’s kiss

On Wednesday we walk
Under the Carolina jasmine
Covered arbor
Under the sweet yellow perfume
Of its small bugle flowers

And I turn back to the deck
To see if the wisteria has bloomed yet
Because sitting on the deck
Under blooming wisteria
Is perfume like no other

But still just those buds of promise

Thursday, a frog jumps into our small pond
The dwarf hemlock transplanted just weeks ago
Already has new light green at the tips
The weeping cherry weeps so gracefully
Over the pond
Its wounded side healing
Its deep cut wispy leaves
Still graceful green

By Friday the Lenten roses are faded
And so close to the ground
They seem ready for burial
Held in the pieta of their evergreen leaves
Not to rise again until next year

But the cold crops
Collards, cauliflower, broccoli
Spread their sturdy umbrella leaves
Ever larger
Imperially impervious to the cold nights
That explain the burlap
And upside down plastic pots
Next to the tender tomatoes
We dared to plant early

Saturday I gather herbs for supper
Spikey rosemary to rub between my hands
Before laying it on top the potatoes
Flat Italian parsley, low spreading thyme
Golden marjoram to flavor the omelet
Made with eggs from Shirley’s chickens

Sunday I pause inside to admire
The small pink azalea
Blooming in front of our low window
And almost hidden outside
By the orange tipped nandina

Mom is at mass upstairs
Upstairs on YouTube
As Woody and I join hands
To slowly pace the new miracles
In our garden
Thankful always
That even in our strangely slowed world
God still says Amen
So be it
To gardens
And we see that it is indeed still good.

The knife is old
The blade rusts
If not dried just after washing
The wooden handle has a satisfying heft
(Lovely word, heft, has a heft itself)
The blade is long
About 6 inches
Thin and tapered
Woody has had it many years
Used it over fire pits
And over kitchen counters
Sliced fish for smoking
Venison for jerky
Suckling pig
And garden vegetables
He hones it often
Keeps it sharp
I like the heft of memories in my hand
As I wash and dry it.

We waltzed through the first tune
Partnering as we chose
Swinging easily past the uncomfortable:
Abraham offering his wife to the king
All those slain in the name of the god
Who shall not be named
Those soft spots on babies’ heads
Crushed against the captors’ hard rock

For our second tune
We practice faithfully
Like contestants on a dance show
With four dance masters
One step two step, twist and twirl
Bend backwards, don’t lose the beat

Then the beat picks up
The steps are faster
More complex
As we partner with Paul
Practicing perfection

Now we know the steps
Now we feel the rhythm
Now we hear the music
Now we near the crown

Then those horsemen
Ride rudely in
Scattering dancers
Parting partners

Bringing blood and beasts
Plagues and pestilence
Until our silent screams
Drown out the music

Have you ever tried to conga
Keeping six feet apart?

Have you ever tried to sing
Through a mask?

Have you ever kept the rhythm
When the beat stopped?

Do you know the lyrics
Can you hum the tune
That lets you keep your faith
As you shuffle in place?

If Jesus is the Lord of this dance
What macabre melody is left
For our disco with Death?